A nurse leads me to a private post-operative room and motions for me to go inside. I thank her, but stand in the doorway, hesitant as I take in the dimmed lighting and sanitized space. It’s not much different from the relationship my father, and I have had all our lives. Cold. Distant. Neat. Muted. So many monitors are in the room, tracking his vitals and keeping him alive. The sounds only help to remind me of how disconnected our lives are. He created a divide between us, unlike these pieces of equipment connecting him to this world, helping him fight for his life.

There are probably only a handful of milestones in my life where I can remember him being around. One or two birthdays. An elementary school recital where I played the Georgia peach. And that time, I only saw him because he stepped out of the shadows from the far back of the school gymnasium because I accidentally fell off the stage. He wasn’t at my high school or college graduation. At least I didn’t see him. And what about his big moments? I wasn’t included in any of them. He eloped for every one of his marriages. If he received any awards in business, I’d learn about them in the news like every other stranger. Did he have a health condition that predisposed him for this stroke? He never told me.

Should I be here?

If he were conscious, would he even want me here?

I step inside and walk over to his bedside. My heart tightens in my chest as I look down into his face. He’s so pale. So frail. So still. So human. I can hardly recognize him. It’s as if he aged a couple of decades as a result of his stroke. What hits me the hardest are the details of his face. His eyes are closed, highlighting the dark lashes we have in common. His lips are pressed tight, but they have that same cupid’s bow shape as mine. I don’t think I’ve been around my father long enough to notice each feature up close. All my life, what I saw the most was the back of his head as he left me with nannies, babysitters, cleaning ladies, or his string of ex-wives.

Until now.

It’s fucking illogical, but I can’t help asking myself why we couldn’t have been more for each other. I tried in the early years, and remember giving up completely sometime before I hit my teens. It was that day I had a driver drop me off at my father’s office building. He was in a meeting or something. His secretary took pity on me and made me wait in his large corner office. Alone, I explored the room, picking up paperweights, his handwritten notes, framed photos of him and his buddies, him and each of his wives, everyone except me and my late mother. And when Dad finally returned and saw me sitting in his chair playing the boss lady, he wouldn’t step foot into the room. He just barked that he was too busy for this—for me—and had his secretary walk me back to my waiting driver.

Was I so unlovable that he couldn’t stand the sight of me? What was it about me that caused him to detest being in the same room with me? I blink back the tears that threaten to fall. A wave of muddled emotions washes over me. First, sadness. And fear that I’ll lose him before we get to know each other, because deep down, I know I lost my father long before tonight. I’m angry too. Why does he have to wait until he’s on his deathbed to let me in?

Light from the hallway stream in as someone opens the door. I look up to see the doctor waiting.

“Yes?” I whisper.

“I’d like to go over your father’s prognosis. We should speak in the hallway.”

“How’s he doing, …Doctor Morgan?” I ask, reading his name tag just in time to add his name.

“We’ve stabilized him. Your father’s on life support.”

“Is he in any pain?”

“There’s a morphine drip to manage the pain. Miss Buchannan, I’m here to discuss our goals of care going forward.”

I have no idea what he’s trying to tell me. “Can you explain what that means?”

“The stroke your father suffered was severe. Although he’s stable now, his brain stem function has failed. What that means is all these machines are keeping your father alive. He’s very likely to die if we remove any one of them.”

“Very likely. Are you saying there’s a chance he’ll breathe on his own and his body will heal?”

“It’s a very small chance. The human body does at times experience minimal recovery. Nothing’s one hundred percent guaranteed in your father’s case, but again, with the severity of his stroke, he’s not expected to survive without life support.”

I’m dizzy. It’s all so overwhelming that I feel like I’m drowning underwater. There’s a message somewhere in the doctor’s update, but it’s more than I can process. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m not following. This is all new to me. What are you asking me or advising me to do?”

“We’re out of treatment options, Miss Buchannan. We can’t do anything more for your father, except keep him stable and manage his pain. In cases like these, we offer the patient’s next of kin a couple of comfort care options. The first option is to allow your father a natural passing. Meaning we would have you sign a do not resuscitate order and remove his life support. In which case, death will likely follow.”

“And the other option?”

“We would transfer him to long-term hospice care facility.”

“And he’d remain like this?”

“In my professional opinion, yes.”

“But there’s a chance he’ll wake up on his own after removing life support?”

He takes a look at a computer tablet in his hand, probably to look over my father’s data. “A small chance, however…your father’s listed as an organ donor. If we were to test removing his life support in stages and he dies, well, the process is lengthy, and his organs wouldn’t be viable for donation. It’s the same case if he’s moved to hospice care.”

The pounding in my ears makes it close to impossible to be rational right now. If I’m hearing this right, Dr. Morgan is letting me know that if I want to respect my father’s wishes to be an organ donor, I need to authorize pulling the plug—they want me to agree to killing my father.

“I don’t know…this is a lot to take in, Doctor.”

“You have some time to think it through.”

“How much time?”

“A day. Two maybe.”

“Two days,” I mumble. “And I have to decide? No one else?”

“That’s correct. You have medical power of attorney, according to the documentation your father’s lawyer provided. We’ll also continue to monitor him for any improvement during that time.”

Jace, Erica, and Peggy come over to us, so I ask the doctor to repeat his update for their benefit. And for mine, as I don’t have the wherewithal to share something so dire with Erica or Peggy. I’m also relieved that Kiki is elsewhere. Adding her to the mix in this conversation would be a nightmare.

“You have to keep him alive,” Peggy says firmly after hearing the prognosis and options. “If there’s a chance, we need to let him fight.”

The feel of Jace’s protective arm around my shoulders makes this potential confrontation bearable. I can’t do this without him. Resting my head on the side of his chest, I let him shield me for moral support at least. I don’t even care anymore about what people will think if they know about us.

“I’m afraid that’s Miss Buchannan’s call,” Doctor Morgan says.

A vein on Peggy’s temple pops up from her excitement, or her anger. I can’t tell, but I’ve never seen her so animated. “I don’t care about what little tick box he might have checked on his driver’s license application fifteen or twenty or thirty years ago. He needs his organs. Organ donation recipient candidates can wait in line.”

Erica nods. “Gerald has always supported being an organ donor, Peggy, and you of all people know that.”

Erica’s right about Peggy, who runs one of the most influential charities that fund regional and national organ donation drives as well as hospital programs.

“And you know Gerald wouldn’t want to go out like this,” Peggy protests.

The doctor raises a hand to stop them both. “Take a day or two to decide, Miss Buchannan,” he says to me, probably to reinforce that Peggy has no say in the process. “You should go home. Get some rest. Perhaps get his affairs in order. We’ll contact you if his condition changes. Once you decide, just speak to the admitting nurse and we’ll go from there.”

He clears his throat. I can tell he’s wrapping up this chat by the way he straightens up, lets the patient records tablet computer hang at his side, and slides his free hand into a pocket of his white coat.

“Thank you,” I say as he turns to leave. I don’t mean it. I’m not grateful. It’s not the doctor’s fault, but in a way, with the news that he’s just given me, the man is more like my father’s angel of death than a savior right now.

“I’ll take Cherry home,” Jace says to Erica.

“I don’t want to leave him,” I tell him.

Erica squeezes my forearm. “I’ll be here, honey. Joseph said he’d stay too. We don’t all need to wait around at the same time. You can cover for me tomorrow morning.” She looks up at Jace. “Take her home.”

With a conceding nod, he kisses the top of my head, and we walk down the hallway to gather our things in the waiting area. Peggy insists she’ll be here the night, which is cause for alarm, because she is used to getting her way. As Erica and Joseph are staying behind, I have some reassurance that no decisions will be made on my behalf while I’m gone. Kiki must have left earlier. The rest of us—Jackson, Dahlia, Vanessa, Dylan, Jace and I—clear out, with plans for me and Jace to take the morning shift.

We’re all silent as we take the elevator to the parking level. The mood is somber. Everyone exchanges embraces before heading off to their respective vehicles. My dad’s driver, Vernon, waits dutifully beside the town car. I tell him to go back to Dad’s house and wait for news, and let Jace take me back to his place. He’s gone through the loss of a parent, so I know I can lean on him.

God knows I can’t be alone tonight.